


One Last Call

by veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom



Category: Divergent - All Media Types, Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, BAMF Tris Prior, Blood, Depressing, Existential Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11610633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom/pseuds/veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom
Summary: After a mugging gone wrong, Drew is left bleeding out in an alleyway. When he realizes his death is imminent, he decides to make one last call.





	One Last Call

The night is heavy, spread in thick, choking smears like pitch black butter over the toast of Chicago. Lights illuminate the distance, scattered here and there in clumps along the horizon to denote clusters of activity; a city as large as this is a beast that does not sleep, only rests during buzzes of nighttime inaction. If I were downtown, near the Loop, or in an area with more commercial space, it'd probably be a lot brighter. It wouldn't be daylight, but at least I'd be able to see my feet on the sidewalk in front of me, instead of feeling like I'm paddling through a murky brown pond whenever I take a step, risking stomping on a rock or being bitten by a wild creature of some kind, probably a venomous one, with my luck.

But that'd be far too counterproductive to my goal. Darkness is my friend, the kind that drifts away for occasional periods to hang out with others, but always comes back in the end, too committed to betray me for good. In my business, darkness is essential, the first tool an amateur learns to utilize. When it is dark, there are no bystanders, no witnesses, no one to intervene. Faces are concealed beneath cloaks of gloom. To walk alone at night in my presence is to doom yourself to victimhood. 

Tonight, I'm looking for someone, anyone, because at this point, I would leave satisfied with a quarter and a couple sticks of gum as loot. I haven't eaten more than a few pieces of bread and an apple in the past three days, and I'm on my third warning letter from my landlord, the final pink slip of paper that will stand out among the black and white mottling of my junk mail or be slid under my door during my afternoon nap, before I am evicted and must walk along these streets at all times.

I've exhausted every option. My parents refuse to lend me any more money, because I never pay up. My friends are weary about it for the same reason. Even with just fourteen dollars to my name, I have been neglected by everyone who I thought cared. I'm too dumb and poor to go to college. I earned consistent low marks in school since first grade, despite my full dedication and focus, even if only to avoid the humiliation of repeating a grade; I'd never understand a thing in any of the classes. I dropped out of high school five years ago, long before I would have gotten a diploma. Getting a job, even at a fast food place or convenience store, would require fighting hoards of teens who are better suited to working than me.

There's only one person I haven't begged for money, my best friend, Peter, and I cannot bring myself to look weak and pathetic in front of someone so strong, and I cannot bring myself to take money from someone who deserves it more than I do. He bought me a sandwich, once, when I didn't have anything to eat, and the moment I was hidden in my apartment, concealed from the world, I cried, because I felt unworthy.

Peter's the reason I don't work. If I did, I'd have a steady income to eat with, to pay my rent with, to buy gifts and tokens of my appreciation for him with, but I can't see myself under the command of anyone but him. He's the only person I've ever respected, and, maybe, the only one I've ever loved. It'd feel like betrayal to take orders from anyone else.

So I take this on in the name of loyalty, and out of sheer desperation to satisfy my needs. I steal, not out of greed, but necessity. It's easy, and I get what I want. But it's not like in the movies, where the thief finds a golden ring that used to belong to a king from the Dark Ages or a wealthy Hungarian socialite, sells it on the black market, and becomes rich. Like any other dirty, undesirable profession, this is glorified beyond belief. The reality is less simple. Sometimes, I feel guilty, and most of the time, I don't. I keep moving, and I remember Peter, the reason I haven't given up on myself, my light, my glory, and I continue on. As long as I am alive, I can serve him, but to stay alive, I must be a criminal.

An algid breeze wipes the air, brushing over my exposed face; I reach down and tighten my jacket. I'm thankful for it. It's only autumn, but it's the coldest one I've seen since I was twelve. If I disregard the temperature, it's actually nice. I can wear a navy blue, almost smoky black jacket and long black pants everywhere, things that cloak me to the night during my crimes, and not look suspicious at all.

There's no one out tonight, which is to be expected, in a residential neighborhood like this. Anyone who is awake is in a different part of the city. I haven't moved onto burglaries yet, because the idea of playing around with heights and windows and the risk of a gun owner is too much for me, but if anyone is walking around here, whether they're departing or returning, they're bound to be alone, vulnerable. A perfect target. I'm willing to gamble on not finding anyone, for that.

I pace up the sidewalk, keeping my head turned down, and my eyes focused on the murky lightlessness concealing the space where my feet should be. I'm walking a light incline, lined with square brick buildings as far as I can see, which, admittedly, isn't far, tonight. Every one I've passed so far has had at least one shattered window, with its cracks or the jagged edges of its hole gleaming in the glow of the faint, flickering porch lights like sheets of dingy ice, or old, decaying furniture dumped on the stoop that looks like it's been there since my mother was born, at least. Some of them have turbine vents on the roofs that are just barely visible enough for me to notice the arrays of scratches, dings, and dents dug through them by a lifetime of wear. There's street lamps every few doors down, but not one of them so far has worked. It's a sad street, for sure.

I'm not thinking about anything in particular when I catch a glimpse of movement at the top of the hill, half a football field ahead of me, through the corner of my eye. It's little more than a strangely-shaped shadow, but I jerk my head up anyway. Nothing that size should be moving out here that isn't another human. Another potential source of income. 

I don't stop moving completely, as to avoid drawing attention to myself, but I slow my gait, until I'm only taking a step every few seconds. The shadow is approaching me much, much faster than I am approaching it. Maybe they saw me glaring up at them, sizing them up, and became alarmed, and now they're trying to navigate home as fast as possible. If that's the case, they're too late. Too slow. When I need something as much as I need this, I cannot allow anyone to outpace me.

I sneak a hand into my pocket, and past the bulge of my phone, until I feel a slick metal handle against my palm. I draw my switchblade.

It's not very big, only about as long as my ring finger without the blade extended, but, on nights where there's tangible moonlight, or when I'm near a functioning street lamp, the thorn-sharp tip reflects the light in a way that makes it seem menacing, like a glinting tiger claw, unsheathed and eager, too eager, to spill blood. It's struck fear into the hearts of men a foot taller than me and twice as muscular, chilled them to the bone enough to influence them to empty their pockets into my cupped palm, and I've never once had to stab anyone, not that I'd be afraid to. I carry it for more than show.

I feel my breath pause halfway up my throat in a pulsating bubble as the shadow draws near enough to take a shape, a form. It's definitely human, not that I thought anything else, and a woman, judging by the narrow slightness of her shoulders and the length of the hair that whips around her head in windswept tentacles. She carries a purse swung over one shoulder that weighs down her balance until it is unsteady and she is left relying on the side tipped down by the force of her belongings, leaning ever-so-slightly to appease her heavier half. 

I told myself I would find the perfect target here, right where my feet touch the ground, and now, she's presenting herself to me, like a gift from a higher power, a gift from fate. This is going to be a cinch. 

I allow myself to advance to her a bit faster, so I'm back at a normal walking pace. The girl's uneasiness seems to seep out into her stance, her movements; everything she does seems a little more contrived, a little more planned, than before, as if she's weighing and calculating every possible outcome. That is fear.

I pause. Do I really need a weapon? She's small and thin and probably frail from a lack of fighting experience and from carrying the universal disadvantages of her short stature. If I glare at her the wrong way, she'll probably give me everything she owns, and then ask me if I want her to steal anything  _for_  me.

The thought is absurd enough that the ghost of a laugh snakes through my throat, begging to be released. But I can't show emotion, not now. Emotion is weakness, weakness is failure, and failure is not an option. To fail would be to shame myself, and Peter in turn. I don't care if I'm a coward, ineffectual, stupid, anything, but Peter is the world and to humiliate him by association, even if I'm the only one aware of it, is an act of premeditated evil.

As flighty as this girl seems, as light as her steps are, there is bravery in her. She's advancing despite her resevervations. That is the definition of bravery. Sometimes, I wish I had that kind of strength. 

Soon, she is close enough that I can see the defiance in her eyes, and the balled fists swinging at her waist, as if to challenge me. She knows. And she is protesting it, without saying anything, without humanizing me into anything more than a savage who terrorizes innocents for the thrill of it, who draws blood to see his hands turn crimson and glisten under the sunlight. Good for her. Maybe she'll learn that bravery exempts her from nothing, because without conflict, bravery is just that. Nothing. It becomes as meaningless as life itself when there's nothing to be brave about, when there are no stakes and no risks.

I draw to a stop, and now there is little more than a yard between us. The girl flares her nostrils.

I'll teach her some humility.

"Drop your bag," I say, loud enough to be heard clearly, but not loud enough to sound angry, like I'm losing control over her, over the situation, over myself. Control is the beginning and the end of this. Calmness inspires confusion, and confusion holds the door open for fear.

She doesn't respond, just stands there with narrowed eyes and a scowl. This is a very odd girl. What she lacks in appearance, she has more than enough mental strength to compensate for. I've seen grown men submit to the sound of my voice alone, and here is this girl, this undersized specimen of a woman no older than me, who can see the gleam of the switchblade pressed against my side, can hear the unspoken threats coursing through my voice, can hear everything I'm considering doing to her from that one sentence alone, and she is not backing down. 

I extend my hand, as if I'm going to give her a handshake. Maybe she just didn't see my weapon. She gets one more chance.

"Drop your bag."

There is a pause. The world stutters on its axis, sputtering over its own suspense. The air is thick and humid and overcoming with the weight of tension.

"No."

I've never been told no before, not like this. A rush of fear in my chest tells me to back away, to run and leave her and never return. She is too much for me. 

But if I flee, am I good enough for Peter? Do I deserve to have his courage in my life when I am paralyzed by my own cowardice? 

Leaf-colored eyes flash through my mind, dark as summer ferns. In them, there is a sparkle of disappointment. His high-pitched voice skips through my ears.

"Fleeing from a girl," he hisses. "You're pathetic, Drew."

I won't let him be disappointed in my failure, even if he never finds out. I won't. I can't.

My feet move faster than my mind, and the girl doesn't move at all. I push my empty hand onto her chest, right above her sternum. The blade slides over skin without puncturing it, finds the point between her jaw, her neck, and her ear, framed by scruffy golden-brown hair. If I press down any harder, I will slit her jugular, and she will bleed out until she meets the void. I'm so familiar with this position that my switchblade seems to have become like another limb, and I swear I can feel her hammering heartbeat through the metal. Maybe it's so loud that it spreads through the air and vibrates down my fingers.

I notice a tattoo, across the jut of her collarbone, to the upper right of my hand. Three black birds. To get that done, she needed money. Lots of money. This is worth it.

I expect her to stumble back, to dart away, to give in to my promise of violence. But do I really? I'm not sure I expect anything from this mercurial thunderstorm of a woman. 

"No," she says again, but it is not a trembling, shaking statement, born out of shock. It is an act of rebellion, of immeasurable strength in the face of adversity. It is hard and stern and unflinching.

I reach the hand that was against her torso down to snatch her purse by the bag. I don't need to be hiding from a homicide investigation. I'll just get out before she can realize what I've done. 

Pressure fires into my gut, sudden, sharp, an explosion centered only inside me. My feet leave the earth, and then, I crumple against something hard. What's going on? My palms are empty, and leaking sweat, and fire shoots through one, and there's something sticky, and I can't breathe and I'm crumbling into dust and my bones feel like they're made out of gelatin. Then I hear impacts, and I feel bursts in my ribs, my chest, my thighs. I tighten myself into a ball to protect the soft parts of my torso, but I'm not fast enough, and a boulder rams into my flesh, liquefying every organ in my body into a steaming, viscous paste the consistency of salad dressing.

Someone grunts from exertion, stressed and heavy. I don't recognize the voice, and my eyes are clamped too tightly shut to see them. Then, in my belly, there is a flaring twinge of heat, of fire, of ice, and of oblivion all at once. I choke on my own existence.

* * *

I awaken to the musky scent of dust and mud. Beneath me, the world is hard, immovable, and coated with grit that digs into the back of my head, grinding away at my scalp. Even lying down with my eyes closed makes me feel dizzy.

When I was a kid, my mother and I got in a car wreck. Someone ran a red light and smashed into our trunk, sending us into a wild, loopy whirl across the intersection. I was conscious the entire time, so I remember being jostled around in the skidding vehicle, and right now, although I can see only my eyelids, I feel as if I'm back there, with everything spinning, with panic coursing through my thundering heart, with every part of my body from toes to forehead pulsating with the aches of newborn bruises.

I realize something isn't right as soon as I open my eyes again. I recognize this place, barely. I walked past it a few seconds before I saw the girl with the bird tattoos, but I hadn't paid it much attention. It was just a dingy alley between two of the dilapidated apartment buildings. If I'd seen this anywhere else, it'd jump out at me, the dumpster stained with slimy streaks of reddish-brown fluid not even a raccoon who had been starved for three months would dare to lap up, the piles after piles of abandoned cinder blocks, the overflowing black bags of garbage lining the walls, the rotten sofa parked on its back that looked as if a hoard of kittens had been using it for climbing practice, but here, it is nothing short of standard.

Then I remember her beating me, the kicks, the flare of heat in my stomach. I glance down. My shirt and jacket are a few shades darker around the torso than I remember them being. My hands are coated in something dark and slick.

She stabbed me.

She stabbed me, right under the navel, with my own switchblade, and she dragged me into this alley.

Once I recognize what has happened, see my injury, it kicks in.

The strength is draining from my muscles, flowing out with my blood to surround me in a sticky red pool of fear and desperation and hopelessness. Even breathing, something that once came so innately, something I've done since birth without a single pause, is difficult; it feels as if someone's laid a concrete block over my chest, and I cannot fill my lungs due to the weight. When I manage to deliver a shallow breath down my air-starved windpipe, it does nothing to lessen the dizziness that makes the ground whirl around me like I'm watching it from inside a speeding train, and my body remains hungry for air to feed the lungs that now seem to be made of sodden paper bags.

Blackness dissolves the edges of my vision, in a cloudy fog dark even against the dark backdrop of the night sky. I want to give in. It seems so warm, so tempting, to just shut my eyes and rest, if only for a moment. Maybe, if I stop, and have a short nap, the balance will return to my legs, and I will be able to rise again and find my way to a hospital, then, to home. And to a safe place where I can see Peter.  
  
Peter. The name forces my eyes back open, and, suddenly, my mind no longer feels heavy, bogged down with a haze of nothingness. I realize that if I had taken that break, I would be dead. I'm dying, and it's coming so easily. The thought is haunting, but not because of the irony that a human body with so many innate failsafes engineered over millions of years of evolution could be weakened so dramatically by a single event, or even that I'm dying, meaning it's over for me, and that soon, I will have no consciousness, no recollection, no thoughts at all.   
  
I am frightened because  _Peter_ , my strong, handsome, courageous Peter, is going to  _lose_  me, his friend since childhood, and I can do nothing to stop it. I am not ready to face abandoning Peter, not so soon. Maybe not ever. I have been scared before, of many things, most of them silly, irrational, even, like flying in planes, and being left alone without any friends, and spiny centipedes with spindly legs as long as their segmented bodies. I'm a coward at heart; I should know fear better than anyone else because it fuels my life. I attacked that woman out of fear. Fear of going hungry, fear of being evicted from my apartment, fear of becoming destitute. And yet, despite how fear has shaped my path, I have never been truly, deeply, maddeningly terrified, not in this way, not in the way that makes horror burrow into my mind and refuse to leave, not in the way that it taunts me, creeps after me, consumes me, no matter what I do or how hard I fight it. I have never experienced any of this.   
  
But no matter how fear struck me down, tore me open and scattered my insides, I'm still alive, still here, still whole, unshaken by its punches. If I struggle, fueling my limbs off solid determination instead of energy, I might be able to persist just a little longer in this world that I am now doomed to leave. My demise can loom over me in a lightless cloud, like my shadow on a wall, all it pleases, and when the time is right, perhaps in five minutes from now, or perhaps in an hour or two, I will surrender to the pleas driven by its imperious command for me to accept its gift of the sweet release of death.   
  
With all of the might in my body, every grain of willpower, every heartbeat, every fading breath, I slide my arm down the concrete, aiming for my pocket. If I can get in, I have my phone, and if the case, the fabric padding of my pants, and my own thighs protected it, with these final minutes, I can make one last call. I can finish the business remaining in my existence. I can mend everything I need fixed to be able to move on without guilt, and die happy, satisfied with my life.   
  
I expect a throbbing tsunami of agony to stab through my shoulder when I dare to move, soreness that rushes quickly in one great wave, and then proceeds to flood my every sense, my every nerve, in smaller torrents of anguish. The reality is little more than a twinge near my collarbone, enough to clamp my teeth together in my mouth, but not enough to prevent me from moving, or affect me in any other way. If I were unhurt, it would be traumatic, but now that there is a tunneling wound punctured through my belly, gushing my lifeblood into the city in a spurting fountain, pain with an intensity that would normally shock me into passing out is the only pain I really feel. 

The concrete is solid beneath me, and I am, for the first time since my attack, thankful for that, because it provides support for my trembling hand. It is there to guide it back into place whenever the muscles in my thumb spasm, or my wrist twitches, or a stern ache, its presence scolding me for overworking my fading body, stabs my palm. It is dependable, loyal, everlasting.  
  
I decide as I prod my fingers into the nook of my pocket that my last call will go to Peter.  
  
Peter was always my concrete. Whenever I fell, he could pick me back up and dust me off without doing anything but existing in my proximity. My weaknesses became irrelevant around him, because his strengths were more than numerous enough to compensate, even enough to patch me, to fix me. When we were together, we seemed to become inseparable, one soul of two indistinguishable parts. He is my everything, and he will be until I finally die, and until eternity, assuming there is a god other than him. If there is any voice I want to narrate my exit, I want it to be his. And if there is anyone I want to reassure, I want it to be him.

The idea of one final conversation between us, so his words can ring in my ears as I pass, is enough to get the phone out of my pocket. My hands are coated in my slick, dark blood, which oozed down to my wrist; it's smeared across the phone too, from me holding it. As I lift the phone toward my face, I feel it slipping and gliding across my sticky fingers, trying in vain to slide between the cracks and escape. But it can't. I refuse to let it. If I drop it, then I might never regain the sturdiness necessary to pick it back up, and then all my effort will be for nothing.

But I get it above me, in view, and pressing the button is much easier. The alleyway around me is illuminated with a vibrant white light, and for a split second, my heart sinks in my chest, caught in a painful spike. Am I dead? Is this it? 

I'm becoming delirious. I need to hurry. My vision is so cloudy that I can't make out the buttons on the screen; they're all individual beams of light of various colors, some green, some blue, some colors I don't have the concentration to remember the names for. But what I do remember is how to call Peter. I know exactly where I need to go, even if I can't see it for the blurriness of my world. 

Left lower corner. I tap, desperate, my chest clenched, my throat dry. I need it. Faster, faster. 

The lights don't change. I hover my finger a little higher and press again. 

Now the lights are a pale gray. I just called Peter a few hours before my attack, I remember; that saves me the impossible task of punching in his number.

I almost hadn't called him, since I'd already told him I might not be able to meet up with him and Molly for our night out, because I didn't have enough money to pay my rent, let alone have extra to spend partying. But I'd decided to confirm it, because perhaps fate knew I was going to be injured tonight, and it told me to make that call, so I'd be able to talk to Peter as I died. 

Maybe my whole life was planned out, molded from the beginning into a predetermined destiny, and events were supposed to flow into each other, nothing without a purpose, a reason, just as that did.

That thought is too uncomfortable to dwell on. I tap the top of the screen, quick, to reduce the amount of blood I wipe onto it from my fingertip. 

It rings. I got it on the first try. I lower my phone to my ear. The warmth is comforting. I imagine that it's Peter's hand resting on the side of my head, radiating heat into my skin, and my tired lips curve into a loose, weak smile. Part of me wants him to be here for entirely selfish reasons, so he can comfort me as I go. But the rest of me knows that's a terrible idea. I should keep him calm, and not admit to anything being wrong unless he asks. I want our last exchange to be fond, jovial, not panicked and sorrowful. 

I melt from the inside out at the sound of his voice.

"Hey," Peter says. "We're alrea—already back, so, uh..."

He stumbles over the words, in an inconsistent, nervous way that implies inebriation from someone as confident and direct as Peter; he must have been drinking earlier tonight. It doesn't matter. Peter is Peter, and Peter is everything.

I just hope he remembers this.

"Peter," I rasp. My own voice isn't as clean or clear as his, even though mine is closer. I really am dying. 

The air around me is heavy, humid, and inhaling it is like inhaling a combination of smoke and mist. No matter how many breaths I take, I can't find enough oxygen to afford to say anything more. Desperation pulses through my veins, spreads through every molecule of my existence. I can't die without the mercy of my final call. Why is everything so cruel to me, at now, of all times? All I asked for was for Peter to give me permission to pass away. That's all I ever needed, for anything. His permission, his guidance, his superior mind.

"Does you..." He pauses, for no reason except that his mouth outruns his brain when he's drunk. "Does you needs something, or are—" He doesn't finish his sentence before proceeding into a bursting flurry of sharp laughter. He pronounced the words strangely, with extra emphasis on the syllables that should float by, and no emphasis on what should be stressed. I wonder if he's even at the point where he can understand anything. Is it a waste of time to speak?

No. Peter is never a waste of time. Besides, he's always giddy after he's been drinking. He won't suspect a thing, and I won't have to try to conceal my state from him as it leaks out into my speech.

"I just wanted to tell you that you're the best thing that ever happened to me."

I want to say more. I  _have_  to say more. That isn't enough to describe Peter's beauty, his persistence, his bravery. It doesn't tell him anything. My loyalty for him is fierce, powerful, a scorching inferno in a world of dying embers. There's so much more to tell him, so much I want to share with him before I go, but there isn't enough time, enough breath. I could go on forever about how he's my best friend, my savior, the only person I've ever met who was completely perfect, without flaw. How he kept me moving during the hardest parts of my life, places where I wanted to give up and end it all, because I couldn't imagine being without him through any action I was responsible for.

Peter laughs again, more of a disjointed, confused cackle than the genuine kind that could make my heart melt and a smile blossom across my cheeks as soon as the rich, high notes, associated with his happiness, and our happiness in turn, because when he was happy, I was, too, struck my ears. But I smile anyway.

"Don't call here ever again, you idiot!" he squeals.

It is light, blissful, with a hint of playfulness emblazoned across it, sprinkled over the tips. He's not mocking me, or insulting me, or intending to be hurtful. I know what he sounds like when he wants to hurt people, and it's nothing at all like this.

However, logic is no match for sorrow, not with me, and especially not on a deathbed. A pang of hurt strikes my chest. The remark is something I never wanted to hear him say to me, not even as a joke, and especially not now, when I have too much to tell him and too little time to share it all.

Then I hear the soft click that indicates the call has been ended, a haunting noise that stabs me in the chest, far, far deeper than the switchblade ever did, until its jagged, serrated edges grind through my back and poke out to air. The sound echoes in my ears, taunting me. It sustains itself only to prolong my misery. Peter's gone. He wasn't in the right state of mind, and now, he's gone. I never got through to him.  
  
I tighten my grip on the phone. Maybe if I squeeze it hard enough, I'll be able to reach through and touch Peter, and spread my blood on his cheek, and show him why I'm calling.  
  
But I just don't have the strength. Every breath feels shallow, hollow, as if I'm not taking them at all, but I'm still wasting the energy to try. My arm feels like someone tossed it through a pasta machine and cranked the handle until it became a flaccid, paper-flat ribbon of muscle and bone. I can't hold on, anymore.  
  
The phone slips; I hear the reverberating snap of glass against stone before it even hits the ground. Droplets of blood, cold from their exposure to the ground, cold from being outside of me for so long, splatter across my cheek. I don't have the motivation to wipe them away, or even react beyond a brief blink.  
  
I want to call Peter again, more than anything else. I'm not ready to die until I'm sure he's been reminded how much I appreciate his companionship. But everything's slipping, so quickly, so readily; nothing seems to make sense, and my limbs are fused to the ground beneath me, paralyzed in a brine of my own blood.   
  
I always intended to tell Peter how I've felt for so many years, tell him that I admired him and wanted to walk by his side forever. Had I not been such a coward in life, that could have been a reality. If only I'd told him what I wanted for us. He would have scooped me up into his arms and held me close and kissed me, passionate, desperate, hungry, as if he'd been pining for it as long I as had, as if he'd starved for it, needed it more than anything else. We would have gotten married, and maybe adopted kids, but definitely grown old together, and I would never have been forced to leave him, even for a few seconds. I could have spent my entire life close enough to him to feel his breaths course across my skin.  
  
But I was always too scared.  
  
Now, I know what real fear is.  
  
Real fear is terror, and terror is the light leaving your surroundings as if it were sucked out with a vacuum, until the buildings and the walls and the sky are all dim, lifeless shadows, black on gray, devoid of interest or character or distinguishing features. Terror is your sternum feeling as if it will collapse under the endless weight of the sky. Terror is a hand you can't see clenching into a fist around your windpipe and squeezing your life away, and you can't defend yourself because the force is invisible, untouchable.

Terror is not dying, but dying with one final wish you know will never be fulfilled, dying with a message, a thought, a budding hope, that can never be transmitted.  
  
Terror is dying without Peter—


End file.
